Sweet Arms of a Tune
by sdbubbles
Summary: "Because sometimes every inch of you is bruised; and there's nothing left to prove; so just hold the one you can't love in the sweet arms of a tune."


**A/N: HI. This is quite different to what I usually write. There are bits from "Hanssen/Hemingway" woven in between, and I'm not sure it makes sense, but I hope it does.**

**The song is "Sweet Arms of a Tune" by Missy Higgins :)**

**Sarah x**

* * *

_He told her when she played  
Wings sprouted from her shoulder blades  
And every bone inside her seemed to change  
So on her fingers moved  
Over notes she hoped would soothe  
His jagged soul, caressing every groove  
_

She felt his presence behind her, doing the infamous looming they all teased him about. She had long since learned to recognise when he was hiding behind her. Despite his presence, she did not stop playing. She moved her hands seamlessly over the keys, knowing that, though he rarely said so, it calmed him.

"You should play this more often," he whispered. She felt his hands move her hair behind her shoulders and smiled; he was only like this when they were alone. "You change so much when you play."

She had always known he had a past behind him he would not talk of, and that someone had screwed him up. His father, presumably, but he had not discussed the extent of what had happened.

She felt his hands linger on her shoulders tentatively and knew the mistrust he placed in love, in friendship and in himself. He was broken, the edges rugged and sharp, but she could not help but love him. She could not help but try and fix him though she knew it was likely in vain. She did not speak, fearing she would lose the immense concentration she fixed on the piano and on the movement of her fingers.

His hands drifted into her hair and she had to whisper, "Henrik," to discourage him from distracting her.

"Maja," he bit back, his low tones sarcastic and almost childish. From anyone else she would have said it was immature, but not from him. A broken man could not act with immaturity such as that. He acted with immaturity on a much greater level, but not in his sarcasm. His sarcasm was his only defence.

_Oh, and how she longed to say  
That she'd missed his troubled ways  
And if she could, she'd do it all again_

As he stands before her now, after a quarter of a century, she sees that sarcasm is still his greatest defence. She sees he has barely changed. If anything, she sees more trouble in his heart. She sees a still broken and war-ridden man, all the battles of conscience still raging on in his head.

She almost tells him she has missed him, but decides it will not be helpful. She knows there is probably more turmoil inside him now than all those years ago, that he will have met new people, made new bonds to break, made more mistakes to crucify himself for. That's his problem: he knows nothing of how to let anything drift into the past like it should. He remembers _everything_. He pays more attention to the bad than to the good.

After all he's done, she cannot _not_ love him. There will always be a small piece of her that belongs to him, whether he wants it or not; he is the father of her child. It doesn't matter how much he wants to change that, or how much she wants him to at least acknowledge the extent of destruction trailed behind him, she would never change what happened. How could she? Despite the pain, despite the mess of broken hearts strewn all over the place, her son is the by-product of all of it.

But she will not tell him. She _cannot_ tell him.

_But sometimes every word has been used  
And there's nothing left to do  
But hold the one you can't have  
In the sweet arms of a tune_

There's still no talking to him about his father. Although she knows now why he hates the man, she can't make him understand that all his father wants is to make some form of peace with himself and his son. But he's impossible to convince, and his stubborn nature has not receded with the years.

In the end, when he starts going on about the irrelevance of emotions and legacies, there's only one left thing left to say to him. "You know, for a man who's supposed to be so intelligent, you can be so _unbelievably_ stupid!"

If this is how he still acts around her, then she does not envy anyone he works with who has tried to understand him.

And in this moment, as he turns to her with a stone-like expression as he fights his emotions, she remembers that there isn't much that helps him. Words don't help him. Actions usually make him worse. But music, of all the things in the world, soothe him.

_A year ago today__  
__New York City seemed to fall away__  
__To leave only the bed on which they lay__  
__But an island is just that__  
__Oh, and when the world came flooding back__  
__All the pillars underneath them began to crack__  
__Now he's sitting on her floor__  
__She's playing all the minor chords__  
__Wishing so damn hard he'd kiss her like before_

He sat and remembered how deceptive love could be; only a year ago he had lay next to her, pushing her hair from her peaceful face. Even when she was angry with him – which was unfortunately often recently – her face remained peaceful.

A year ago, the rest of the world had been irrelevant to them. Non-existent to him. But it had not lasted long.

All it had taken was the words, "Henrik, I'm pregnant," to put the fear of God into him. What was he supposed to do with a child? He was not capable of fatherhood. That much, he was sure of.

But now he was sitting on the floor, leaning against the leg of the piano, as she went up and down the scale of minor chords, reinforcing the desperate atmosphere as they both clung to the vain hope that this situation was going to pan out without pain. It was a silly, naïve hope, but they hoped nonetheless.

The problem was that it was hope against hope. She hoped he had it in him to stay. He hoped he had it in him to leave.

He knew he had changed towards her. He had distanced himself from her, and he knew she had noticed. She never spoke of it, but he was sure she knew what he was doing. He intended to leave to save her the pain of realising he was not good for her. He was not good for her, and he was not good for their child.

He glanced up at her; the youthful hope she had always possessed had vanished, leaving uncertainty and fear in its wake. But she feared something different to him.

He feared the many routes before him, knowing he would inevitably do something to force them all, child as well, down the wrong one. He always did. He was not to be relied upon. The only thing he could be relied upon for was to make a mess of everything.

She feared the road itself, the decision of how to get where she needed to go. She feared the messy terrain always involved where he was concerned. She feared _him_.

She was yet to discover the road was to be empty of him.

_But sometimes every word has been used__  
__And there's nothing left to do__  
__But hold the one you can't have__  
__In the sweet arms of a tune__  
__Yeah, hold the one you can't love__  
__In the sweet arms of a tune_

Now he sits with her in an outdoor café and she asks him if he has even thought about her and their child. He has no answer for her. Not one he can bear to say.

She has forgiven him. It's taken twenty-five years since that day he had sat on the floor, piano leg digging into his back, and absolutely no explanation or effort on his part, but she has found forgiveness for him.

He has always loved that about her; it didn't matter what a person did to her, give her enough time and she will forgive them, even if they do nothing to earn it. She has forgiveness in her heart. He has only anger in his.

He remembers that she knows how to calm him. She knows how to disperse the anger. But it isn't her job to love him anymore. He does not love her either, but he is remorseful, and he sees now just how much damage he has done. He has hurt her more than he has ever considered he could have done. He realises now that she is not the same as him; he can take blow after blow and doesn't think long enough to let it hurt. She takes blow after blow and lets it hurt.

She takes the blows and feels the pain because she is not as stupid as him. She understands that the process of forgiveness hurts. He is still to terrified of the pain to let that process take place inside him.

_'__Cause sometimes every inch of you __i__s bruised__  
__And there's nothing left to prove__  
__Just hold the one you can't love__  
__In the sweet arms of a tune__  
__Yeah hold the one you can't love__  
__In the sweet arms of a tune_

He stands now in front of the house in which he was brought up, and thinks about the madness around him. He now has no father. For real this time, not just in his mind. His son has Nils, but Nils isn't the boy's blood. It's chilling. The mess both fathers have made is chilling.

The chill is painful. He aches. His heart and his mind are aching with the mistakes he has made and the people he has let down. He cannot love her. He cannot love his son. He cannot love anyone. The fear it brings him is unbearable.

She doesn't expect anything of him as she stands there, looking up at him. He knows she's given up on expecting him to do anything remotely painful. She knows he doesn't dip his toes into murky waters. He is not sure if she realises that it isn't because he is scared of getting wet and dirty, but he is scared of what the splash may bring to those who surround him.

But she deserves the truth. He's put her through hell; she's only really asked one thing of him since seeing him, and it is only fair to answer her one question.

He approaches the subject of the café with caution and gives her an answer. He has no other words left in him so he gives her only two: "Every day."

* * *

**Hope this is OK!  
Please feel free to review and tell me what you thought!  
Sarah x**


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